


open my eyes (see that it’s you)

by seventhstar



Category: Yu-Gi-Oh! Zexal
Genre: Episode Tag, Gen, Hallucinations, Spoilers for Episode 108 onward
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-22
Updated: 2013-12-22
Packaged: 2018-01-05 11:46:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1093531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seventhstar/pseuds/seventhstar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spoilers for 119. Vector sees the dead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	open my eyes (see that it’s you)

“Your highness?”

Vector jerked at the sound of the general’s voice. He was a timid sort, and Vector was already looking for a replacement, although lately it seemed everyone in his army was as soft and spineless as jellyfish. They fought well enough, but it was maddening having them jump and squeal and scrape every time he gave them an order.

He looked around quickly again – there was no one on deck but the general, and himself, and a few sailors scrubbing out the blood and guts.

No blue-eyed nightmare. No green-haired illusion.

_You saw nothing. She died. Her brother howled like a stuck pig over her body. She died. And the dead do not return to life._

If that were so, Vector wondered, why was he so cold?

“What’s taking so long?” He demanded. The ship had been anchored for too long already. He wanted to move on, and finish razing this kingdom to the ground before he saw or heard or felt anything else impossible and terrifying. If he flattened the land, there’d be nowhere for anyone to hide, and then he would know for certain he was sane and safe.

_You will never be safe, Vector._ She whispered in his ear.

“Y-your highness, the ship has to be purified before we can sail, or the spirits of the fallen might—”

“There is no such thing as ghosts,” Vector hissed. He looked around wildly again, for the insolent bitch that had dared imitate her voice, but he saw no one. Out of the corner of his eye he swore there was hair moving in the sea breeze, her smile just out of sight, and he grabbed the hilt of his blade.

The general took several steps back. “I will hasten the workers, your highness. Please excuse me.” And then he was gone. Vector marched over to the far end of the ship, to the rail, and stared down into the ocean. He could see a twisted version of his reflection there; in the light of the sunset, it almost looked like he were covered in blood.

Someone moved across the surface of the water. He caught a glimpse of a gladiator’s armor, of a headless corpse that walked towards him, and then –

_When will I have my battle? When will I rest in peace?_

He leaped back from the rail and saw Alit’s head go rolling across the deck.

_Impossible. You had him burned! The dead cannot hurt you!_

The sailor who grabbed him to keep him from throwing himself into the water had the face of his first tutor, the one who’d begged needlessly for his life when Vector had him executed, the one who’d read him stories and taught him to hold a pen and taken three swings of the axe to die, because the executioner was weeping. Vector scrambled away from him, from the dead man who smiled at him –

_You would have made such a good king._

“Burn the ship.” He said, and no one moved. He snarled. “Burn the ship! That is my command as king!”

The sailors all jumped overboard, and Vector ignored their muffled complaints, their treacherous whispering (he would kill the worst of them later, as an example, he would not be betrayed again) as he stood in the lifeboat and watched the ship smolder. The fire spread up the masts and across the deck, and the smoke hid from him any of the ghosts that might whisper into his ears, and he screamed at the men to row as he turned his back on the pyre of his fear and towards the castle.

There was a dark cloaked figure with bloodstains on his neck in the boat beside him. The old executioner had refused to slay his tutor, so Vector had demoted him. Forcibly.

He refused to look at him, even as a phantom axe gleamed in the falling sun’s light. But he was cold.

He was afraid.


End file.
